


Sunlight in a World of Darkness

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, First Kiss, Frottage, Hand Jobs, John Watson is part fairy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mrs Hudson is a vampire, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Saves John Watson, Sherlock is a vampire, Vamp!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 07:59:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16425509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: While out hunting one evening in London, Sherlock encounters a very special mortal and pursues him.  Unfortunately, Jim Moriarty wants him too.





	Sunlight in a World of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired a teensy bit by the television show TrueBlood.
> 
> This is for the October 2018 Always1895 prompt "Ghosts". Vampires count in my opinion!

Sherlock stands in the shadows outside the pub, waiting as patrons stumble out after the last call. Easy pickings. He’s lazy tonight, not wanting to spend the effort to pursue a really interesting meal. The drunk ones are dull and tasteless. Their emotions muted by alcohol.

It’s not just the blood. Yes, he needs it to survive. Of course. But he craves the emotions that he tastes in the blood. Funny, when he was alive he never had much use for human emotions or sentiment. But now he craves them. Craves the varied emotions: lust, fear, greed, joy. He wants them all. _You don’t truly know what life is until it runs over your lips in a red gush._

He hunts in different parts of London to satisfy his hunger for the smorgasbord of human emotion. In the posh parts of town such as Chelsea and Kensington, people have a unique taste, often content but a surprising amount of betrayal and disappointment. These are subtle flavours, and to his discerning palate, they are like the difference between a Shiraz and a Malbec.

The boys he finds in gay bars are especially delicious. Sometimes he has sex with them. Sometimes not. It isn’t the sex per se. He doesn’t need it. Not like he needs blood. But it’s a diversion. What he’s after is the taste of orgasm in the blood of the victim. The twin pleasures of driving into the boy or man and biting him just after climax is an experience that has no equal.

Or, if he’s in the mood for fear, he’ll merely bare his fangs at the doomed victim and feast on the vibrant taste of it. 

Children are the sweetest, and their blood is mild and often joyous. They are also the hardest to come by. At night, when Sherlock hunts, they are typically accompanied by adults. Not that he can’t, or hasn’t, taken down whole families, but it requires careful planning and the right conditions.

He lives where he’s lived for one hundred and fifty years, 221B Baker Street. London is a perfect place for vampires. Contrary to what is portrayed in movies, he doesn’t sleep in a coffin but in a bed. The windows are painted black, yes, but he can go out in the daytime if the day is cloudy and in London, this is much of the time.

Mrs Hudson rules 221 Baker Street as she has done for longer than Sherlock has been a vampire. She and Sherlock are a team. Their own little vampire family; not associating with most of the other vampires of London. Some of them are very nasty sorts. Killing for pleasure, not for need. Wreaking havoc and calling attention to themselves. Being sensational. Moriarty in particular.

Sherlock prefers the solitary existence, as he did in life. Hunting when hungry, solving criminal cases for Scotland Yard in between. Tricky business that, feeding them information without being discovered. Sometimes he bypasses them entirely and dispatches the guilty parties on his own.

Detective Inspector Lestrade is long dead, and there has been an endless string of equally hapless detective inspectors. Sherlock never developed close relationships with the men and women that followed Lestrade. As a man who never ages, it would be too easy to arouse suspicion. Lestrade had known about Sherlock in the end and had kept the secret. 

Now he remains in the shadows, feeding tips to New Scotland Yard under the name “Sherrinford Hope”. Lurking about crime scenes, his enhanced senses of sight, smell, and hearing allowing him to observe undiscovered, as he gathers information. Death hasn’t dulled his deductive powers or his intense desire to know things and solve crimes.

He never, of course, helps them solve the crimes he’s committed.

 

********

 

He’s waiting in the shadows outside the pub tonight hoping to find someone not too drunk. Someone who will taste a little bit interesting.

Two women stumble out on their high heels. Leaning against one another, giggling. Easy enough targets. Just as he’s about to follow them, a cab pulls to the curb, and they get in. _Damn_.

Next, a group of men come out and begin to walk down the street, laughing loudly.  _Too many_. Separating one from the pack will be more effort than he’s willing to expend tonight. Sherlock is patient. He’s learned to wait for the right opportunity.

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one. He doesn’t crave the nicotine any longer, his body has no use for it, but the ritual is soothing, and it gives him an excuse to be standing alone on the pavement in the moonlight. He exhales the smoke and watches it curl above his head to be blown away by the night breeze.

Finally, a man walks out of the pub alone. He’s a smallish blonde man, perhaps in his thirties. He’s using a cane.  _Good. Easy prey_. The man has a solemn expression. Did he just have an unsatisfying experience, a rejection perhaps? Or had he been drinking alone?  Drinking alone, Sherlock decides. The man pauses, then turns and walks down the street. Sherlock drops his cigarette to the ground, crushes it with his heel, and falls in behind the man, following at a distance so as not to be obvious. He can be quiet as a cat when he wants to be, and usually, he does.

As he follows, he wonders what the man will taste like. From the look of him so far, by his gait, the way his head is lowered, he expects he might taste like sadness or pain. He can’t smell him yet; the wind is going the wrong way. 

There is a heavy-set man approaching from the opposite direction and his face lights up with recognition when he sees the blonde.

“John Watson?”

The blonde man looks up, startled, and both men stop. Sherlock backs up into the shadows, waiting and listening.

“It’s Mike Stamford, from Bart’s!”

“Oh, hey.”

“I hear you’re back from Afghanistan.”

“Yeah, I was invalided out. Got shot.”

“So, are you going to stay in London, then?”

“I’d love to, but my Army pension doesn’t go far. I’ll probably need to get a flatmate if I’m going to stay here. We’ll see.” 

The heavy man takes out a business card and hands it to John. “Give me a call. We’ll have a pint. It was great to see you.”

“Same, take care Mike.”

The two men shake hands and continue on their respective ways.

Which one to follow? Mike or John? John. He is drawn to the melancholy; intrigued to find out what war would do to the taste of him. It wouldn’t be boring. Smoke and fire? Terror and loss? Mike would be boring. John will be...Something delectable perhaps.

He falls back into step behind John. They turn a corner and the wind shifts. Sherlock sniffs the man’s scent, and prickles rise on the back of his neck. Hunger surges in him, and he runs his tongue over his teeth, feeling the pressure build that will release his fangs when the time is right. The scent is overwhelming and different from anything he's encountered before. There are layers to this scent. Human, yes. Troubled, yes...but something else-- something like fresh cut grass, like flowers and honey and...all of these things and none of them exactly…he smells like a summer day, like…sunshine.

Sunshine! If Sherlock were breathing it would have taken his breath away. Instead, it makes his eyelids flutter, and his mouth opens slightly. Despite his troubles, and he clearly has troubles, this man smells like _sunshine_. There is a barely audible click as Sherlock’s fangs descend and his lips curl, baring them as his steps quicken. He looks around to see if they are alone.

The man stops in front of a run-down building and lets himself in, closing the door behind him.

 _Dammit!_ His chance is gone. Why hadn’t he acted sooner? It isn’t like him to be indecisive and slow. His fangs retract. After a few minutes, he sees a light come on at a window three floors up. No one is in sight, so Sherlock rises quickly to the window and hovers outside it, looking in. It’s a small studio, sparsely furnished. John is sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. Then he gets up and paces the small space, using the cane. Going to the desk, he sits, opens his laptop, stares at it for several minutes, then shuts it again. Opening the drawer to the desk, he looks inside it intently, takes out a gun and turns it over and over in his hands.

No! thinks Sherlock. If John takes his own life, the sunshine will be gone forever, without having been tasted and drunk and revelled in. It will have been wasted. He wants to pound on the window. Beg to be let in. Instead, he hovers and watches silently.

Come to the window, he thinks, as if this will compel John to come to the window, to open it so that Sherlock can smell that lovely smell. So that perhaps John will invite him in. He can’t control humans this way as some vampires can, but he tries. Tries hard.  _Put down the gun!  Come to the window.  Let me smell you. Let me taste you._

John puts the gun back in the drawer but doesn’t come to the window. He takes off his jumper and drops it carelessly to the floor, then unbuttons and unzips his trousers and steps out of them, leaving them next to the jumper. Next, he pulls his vest over his head. He turns, and Sherlock sees a scar on his shoulder, an ugly knotted mass of flesh with a starburst radiating from it. Gunshot wound. John stands there in just his pants, shoulders slumped, looking at the bed as if he’s not sure he wants to get in it. Surprisingly, he’s a handsome man. In his jeans and unflattering jumper, he looked so ordinary. His body is muscular in a modest way, no bulging biceps or chiselled stomach, but firm and well proportioned, with just the slightest bit of pleasing softness around the middle. Fine golden hairs cover his chest, and Sherlock’s enhanced vision sees lamplight illuminate each one, making them seem like threads of spun gold. He’s entranced by this, and he hovers staring. 

Finally, John gets into bed and turns out the light. Sherlock continues to watch. He stays there for a long while. John’s eyes haven’t closed. He’s lying awake looking at the ceiling.

At last, Sherlock’s hunger overtakes his fascination with this mortal. He will come back tomorrow night. After making certain that the street is deserted, he drifts down to the ground and begins the walk back toward Baker Street. He hopes he will find a meal along the way. It doesn’t matter what flavour now, fear will have to do. He needs to feed.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Mate, you looking for something?” asks a pretty dark-haired boy in tight jeans and a leather jacket who’s leaning against a wall, smoking. His eyes are lined with kohl. 

Sherlock stops and turns to him slowly.

“Yes, I am as a matter of fact.”

The boy, who looks like he’s about twenty, remains leaning against the wall and takes a drag on his cigarette while looking appraisingly at Sherlock.

“I’m running a special tonight for handsome posh blokes.” 

“I’m rather keen to get on with it. I’m…hungry."

The boy smiles and crushes his cigarette with the heel of his trainer.

“Alright then. Fifty quid to suck you off.” 

Sherlock gives a nod.  

Now the boy pushes off the wall, shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and with a jerk of his head motions for Sherlock to follow him. He takes Sherlock down a dark alley to a spot hidden from the street by large rubbish bins.

“Money fir…” The boy doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Sherlock is on him, pushing him against the wall and baring his fangs. The boy’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to scream. 

Swiftly, Sherlock covers his mouth with one hand and twists his head, exposing the neck. He waits a few seconds. _One… two… three..._ for the full effect of fear to make its way into the bloodstream. The boy is wriggling frantically, but Sherlock holds him in place and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of his neck.

The warm blood spills into his mouth, and he gulps it down eagerly. The boy’s fear is strong and raw and spreads warmth through Sherlock’s cold body as it flows down his throat. After his initial urgent need is satisfied, he lets the liquid roll slowly across his tongue before swallowing. The boy has stopped struggling now, and the flavour is fading; still nourishing, but bland. When he is done, he releases the boy, and he slides down the wall, eyes open but sightless.

Sherlock touches the boy’s hair with his fingertips. “I’m sorry,” he says before turning up the collar of his Belstaff coat and gliding down the alley towards the lamp-lit street.

 

********

 

He walks up the seventeen steps to 221B as he has done for one hundred and fifty years. He can’t stop thinking about John Watson and the singular smell. He will be going back to find this man tomorrow night. Even though he’s sated, his retracted fangs twitch as he plays the scene back again and again in his mind. Of John undressing in the lamplight. The scar, the limp, the gun. He can’t figure it out, and this bothers him. He hates not being able to figure things out. Absolutely hates it. How can a man with such obvious pain smell like sunshine?

He takes off his coat and scarf and makes a fire in the grate.  Another ritual, from his long-ago life, like smoking, that while serving no physical need, is soothing. Picking up his violin he sits in his chair and begins to play.

There is a knock at the door and a voice calls, “Who hoo! Sherlock?” 

“Come in Martha.”

Martha Hudson enters 221B empty-handed. There has been no tea, nor biscuits, for the many, many years since Sherlock was turned. She is wearing black leggings, trainers and an oversized jumper with a puppy on the front.  Her pink cheeks tell Sherlock she’s back from her evening hunt.

She glides across the room and settles in the chair across from Sherlock’s. “Do go on playing. It’s lovely.”

Sherlock puts down the violin and looks at her intently.

“Martha. Something odd happened tonight.”

She laughs softly. “Something odd is always happening in London dear.”

“Something I can’t explain and can’t stop thinking about.  I was following a man, an ordinary looking man. When I smelled him… he trails off and closes his eyes, trying to recapture the scent. Martha, it was like nothing I’ve ever smelled in a mortal before. He smelled like sunshine if you can believe it. Warm, beautiful sunshine. He got away before I could capture him.”

Martha’s demeanour changes immediately, and she sits forward, black eyes glittering. “Where did you see this man?”

“In Brixton.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes. Why? What do you know Martha?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve heard. I thought it was only legend, old stories.”

“Tell me,” Sherlock demands, leaning forward in his chair.

“I’ve heard ancient tales of Scottish fairies mixing with humans. Such things were forbidden of course, but centuries ago it is said to have happened once. The offenders were put to death, but the rumour was that there was a child that disappeared. And that the descendants of this mixed couple are still out in the world. If it’s true, the blood would surely have been quite diluted by now. But Sherlock, you know that fairy blood is fatal to vampires. Their scent is purposely made to be irresistible, and to lure us with the promise of sunlight and the taste of joy and life, only to take us down as surely as a stake to the heart. If that man a descendant of fairies, then you are fortunate that you didn’t feed on him. You could have been destroyed.”

Sherlock’s hands are steepled in front of his face.   

“Surely after centuries, it’s not fatal poison, it’s been diluted too much. When I was alive I used to poison myself all the time with substances that if taken in large quantities would be fatal but in controlled doses, were...pleasurable. I wonder if the same principle applies? Ah, yes, indeed. If one could control one’s appetite,such a mortal could be very agreeable. And he has a certain charm about him.”

 Sherlock, you’re not thinking of going back there are you? 

Sherlock is pacing in front of the fire now and ignores the question. “But, he’s just back from Afghanistan, hasn’t been in London long. He’s in danger, he will be sought out by any vampire who smells him. What if Moriarty finds him? He’ll be worse than dead. At least when we kill, it’s quick and for sustenance.  Moriarty would chain him up in a basement and keep him like a farm animal, torturing him and feeding on him. What I smelled Martha…It was pure and bright, and while I am hungry for it, I can’t bear to think what might happen to him if someone like Moriarty finds him."

“Sherlock, it sounds like you have a soft spot for this mortal. I’m surprised.”

“I am too Martha, I am too.”

 

********

 

The following evening Sherlock returns to the same pub. Instead of waiting outside he goes in.  It doesn’t take long to find John sitting at the bar alone with a pint of beer, watching the football match on the screen on the wall which has just gone to an advert.  Sherlock takes the seat next to him and pretends to be interested in what’s happening on the telly.

“So, what’s the score?”

“3 – 1. Manchester.”

“Hmm, good.” 

“Not for me, I’m for Newcastle.”

 _“Damn._ Oh. Well sorry then.”

“It doesn’t really matter. They’ve had a rubbish season.”

The game comes back on, and Sherlock angles his head as subtly as possible, inhaling. There it is. The mesmerising smell. Sherlock’s stomach feels light and tingles travel up his spine. He’s not hungry tonight, but he has to think hard to keep his fangs under control. He inhales again and turns to look at John while extending his hand.

“Sherlock.”

“John, nice to meet you. Can I buy you a drink?”

Realising that it might be thought odd to sit at a bar without a drink. Sherlock says yes. “Thank you, Scotch.” Hard liquor is so much easier than beer to pretend to drink. Sherlock stares into John’s eyes, a bit too long perhaps, and John looks away uncomfortably.  John has deep blue eyes, they look sad, but there is something interesting about them.

They watch the match in silence.  But Sherlock can feel John’s eyes on him. _Promising._

“So, what brings you to London?” Sherlock says finally.

“What makes you think I’m new to London?”

“It’s obvious.”

John looks at him questioningly.

“You’ve got a suntan, you won’t get that in London, not any time of year but certainly not in October. Away on holiday? No, you don’t have the funds for that, look at your clothes, your phone, you bought the cheapest beer. I saw your face when I requested Scotch. And in your wallet a military I.D. So--military.  Cane – invalided. Suntan--Afghanistan or Iraq. So, which is it?” Sherlock narrows his eyes and looks at John with a quirked lip. He would have made this deduction even without hearing the conversation last night and he can’t help showing off.

John stares back with an open mouth.

“That was amazing. Afghanistan.”

Sherlock smiles and pretends to take a sip of Scotch. “I know. That it was amazing, I mean.”  

“Well, you’re a piece of work.”

“Would you like to take a walk with me, John?” He’s aware that he’s moving too fast, but the intoxicating smell is making him reckless.

John’s open expression turns into a scowl.

“What? No! Are you trying to pick me up?” 

“I don’t know, are you trying to get picked up?”

“Seriously?” John sputters indignantly.

 _Hmmm. Bi perhaps. In denial._ After reading people for over one hundred and fifty years, he rarely gets this wrong. John had definitely been interested, whether he was admitting it or not. The thought of smelling and tasting John and maybe, just maybe more than that, sends a wave of pleasure through Sherlock groin. But before he can respond, John has risen and thrown two tenners on the bar.

“Good to meet you, Sherlock, I’m leaving now," he growls. "You might find someone else here who’s interested, but I’d be careful, you’re more likely to get yourself beat up." John shrugs on his coat and limps across the bar toward the door.

Sherlock smiles to himself and slowly puts on his coat and ties his scarf.  _Playing hard to get. So much the better. More fun this way_. John won’t get far with his bad leg. He walks out of the bar and looks down the street in the direction John had gone before. No John. He glances the other way. No John.

 _No No No NO!_  He must have taken a cab. Where? Home? There are no cabs in sight, so Sherlock walks quickly toward John’s flat. When he gets there, he sees the light in the window and rises to look in.  

John is pacing the small room with his cane. He’s talking to himself, and Sherlock can’t quite hear what he’s saying, even with his acute hearing.

“Fucking posh…unintelligible…the nerve…unintelligible…”

Finally, John seems to have exhausted his outrage because he stops pacing and muttering and begins to undress, just like last night. Sherlock floats outside and watches. His eyes travelling over John’s body, over the scar. He finds himself wondering if he were to bite the scar if the blood would taste any different than the blood from a bite to the neck or the thigh, his two favourite places.  Would the sunshine taste be changed by the scar? Would the fairy blood be tainted by passing through a wound holding the memory of war and pain and death?

John gets into bed and turns out the light. As before, his eyes remain open, and he looks at the ceiling. Time passes, and Sherlock watches the rise and fall of John’s chest. John’s eyes close, but the breathing isn’t the even breathing of sleep. He’s still awake.  Sherlock wants to watch him until he’s at peace, asleep. Soon, however, he sees the duvet covering John’s lower body begin to shift and undulate. John’s breathing quickens, and his mouth opens.  _He’s touching himself. He’s touching himself thinking about me_. He smiles.  As much as he wants to stay and watch. He feels that he should give John his privacy, that it would be wrong to stay.  _Where did this conscience come from?_

He drifts down to the ground and walks back to Baker Street with a light heart.

_Tomorrow._

********

The next night Sherlock goes back to the bar where John has been the last two nights. He doesn’t see John, _perhaps he’s not coming tonight?_  He’ll go directly to the flat and wait there for him.  Apologise, ask to be let in. Then what? Sherlock doesn’t know.  This is unlike him, not to have a plan. What he knows is the plan absolutely does not include killing John Watson. It’s been two nights since he’s fed and he’s beginning to feel the pangs of need. But it’s manageable.

He approaches the bar and signals the bartender. “Has there been a short blonde man here tonight?”

The bearded man with tattoos nods. “The bloke with the cane?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Yeah, you just missed him mate.”  Left about ten minutes ago.  Looked like he was waiting for someone – a date maybe, but then he just left. Didn’t even finish his pint. Must have changed his mind.”                  

Sherlock turns and strides out of the bar. If John’s walking he should be able to catch him before he gets inside. His long legs carry him down the dark street at twice the pace he calculates John can walk and his coat flutters behind him. He can’t see John in front of him. While he can float and make quick movements over short distances.  He can’t streak long distances like the vampires in the ridiculous Twilight movies. He has to walk or take the tube like any living man.

The wind is favourable, and he sniffs the air, trying to pick up John’s scent. He can just smell it. Good, he’s on the right track.

As he passes an alley, his ears pick up movement and John’s scent. He freezes. He turns into the alley and takes a step forward, and suddenly Jim Moriarty appears in front of him. Fangs extended and blood on his lips. Menacing.

“Sherlock Holmes. Fancy meeting you here. Slumming, are you?”

“Where’s the mortal!”

“Oh. The human? Thank you for that Sherlock. Thank you for leading me to such a treasure. I’ve been watching you. Been watching you with that mortal. It got me thinking.” Jim lays a finger aside of his head in mock thought.

“Why doesn’t Sherlock bite the nice man already?  He limps, he can’t get away. What is it about him? Is Sherlock getting soft?  Soft _er_ I should say. You’ve always been soft. A real disappointment to be honest. Daddy didn’t raise you right. I blame myself. Oh well, can’t be helped now…so FUCK OFF!” Jim’s eyes blaze red, and he takes a threatening step toward Sherlock.  

“Leave John alone! He’s mine!” Sherlock lifts from the ground a few feet and hovers over Jim, fangs snapping into place. Jim rises to meet him, and they hang in the air inches from each other. In a flash, Jim slams Sherlock against the wall of the alley, forearm against his neck. Pinning him, his face contorted in maniacal fury. “I said fuck off Sherlock. You can’t match me.  I made you, and I can destroy you.” 

Sherlock bellows in anger and knees Jim in the groin, causing him to lose his grip temporarily and Sherlock flips over and locks his knees around Jim’s neck, squeezing as tightly as he can.  He swings his body and smashes Jim to the ground as he simultaneously lands on his feet like a cat. Jim is stunned but won’t be down for long. Sherlock lifts him and throws him into a nearby skip. Slamming the lid down, he scans the ground and picking up a discarded bit of wire, winds it through the handle, locking Moriarty inside.

 _John! Where is John!_ Sherlock runs deeper into the alley and sees John’s limp form covered in blood. One eye is swollen shut, and he’s bleeding from his head and also his neck where Moriarty has bitten him. He must have put up quite a fight and appears to be unconscious. _Oh, dear god, don’t be dead_. He puts his ear to John’s lips and feels soft exhalations. He’s breathing. 

He pulls out his mobile and texts Martha.

 _SH:    Come at once. John needs help_. 

He enters the location and presses send.

Now that help is on its way, Sherlock feels the overwhelming presence of mortal blood. It’s all over John’s face, his jumper. It smells divine. Sherlock’s fangs which had retracted, snick down again. 

Oh, the smell. Hunger rises in him. _Sunshine_. The sun he hasn’t felt on his face for so long. The warmth and the pure joy of it.  He pushes the desire down. The blood that’s already spilt though. _Shouldn’t go to waste, right?_   He gathers John up in his arms and begins to lick the blood from his face. Sitting on the pavement with John cradled in his lap, his tongue licks over the wound on John’s head, across his cheek.  Brightness flashes through his mind. Sunlight. Sweet sunlight. Picnics with mummy and daddy and Mycroft. Riding his bicycle on a sunny afternoon.  Flowers. He licks again on John’s neck. Fresh cut hay. Swarming bees. He feels a bit drunk now. Birds chirping…

“Sherlock stop it!”

It’s Martha, she’s grabbed his hair, pulling his head back.

“Stop it. Enough!”

His head is swimming with sensation, his vision blurred.

Smack! His head jerks sideways from her slap.

“Sherlock. You’ve got to stop. We’ve got to get him home if you want to save him.”

His head clears a bit.

“Moriarty…”

As if on cue, the vampire in the skip howls and pounds. The metallic sound pierces the still night. It won’t be long before the wire gives way.

“Hurry,” Martha says.

Sherlock scoops up John, and they run to Martha’s car waiting by the kerb.

 

********

 

They arrive at 221B and Sherlock carries John to the flat and lays him gently on his bed. Sherlock and Martha stare in silent awe.  Then they look at one another. They both smell it.

“I tasted him, Martha. It was sunlight. The legend must be true. He’s part fairy.”

“I think I should go downstairs,” Martha says. 

Sherlock takes her hand. 

“Taste Martha. It’s like being alive again.”

She shakes her head. “No Sherlock I’ can’t. I’ve been dead for so long, it might break me.  I might not be able to stop. He’s yours. You are strong enough. Protect him. I’m here if you need me.” She turns and leaves the bedroom.

Sherlock sits on the bed beside John who is still unconscious. He picks up John’s hand. It’s warm and small in Sherlock’s large cold one.

They had stopped at a chemist’s on the way home and purchased first aid supplies. Sherlock dabs antibiotic cream on the gash on John’s forehead, but not before dragging his tongue across it and quivering at the exquisite taste one more time. Then on the bite marks on John’s neck.

They had removed the blood-soaked jumper, and his shoes and John is now only in his jeans and vest.

Sherlock carefully unbuttons John’s jeans and unzips them, then tugs them over his hips and down his muscular thighs. Sherlock slips into the bed beside him and pulls the duvet over them both. The rest of the night passes with Sherlock on his side, watching John sleep.

 

********

 

As morning nears, John begins to moan softly, and his limbs twitch. Possibly having a nightmare, but it seems to mean he might wake up. It remains to be seen how much the blood loss has affected him, but he will need fluids. Probably should be in the hospital with an I.V. but that can’t be helped. John wouldn’t be safe in a hospital. Moriarty is surely out of the skip by now and already seeking him out.

At last, the eye that isn’t swelled shut opens slowly.

“What? Where am I…? What the fuck?”

“John, you are safe, but you’re injured and dehydrated,” Sherlock says, rising to an elbow.

John peers out of his one good eye at Sherlock. “You!” Then looks around realising they are in bed together although Sherlock is fully dressed. He tries to sit up but falls back immediately with a look of pain. “Ahh,” he says, clutching his side.

 _Stupid!_ They hadn’t checked his body, only noticed the obvious wounds on his head and neck.

“What did you do to me? Where am I?”

“You are safe," repeats Sherlock, “but you’ve lost a lot of blood. You need fluids. Drink this, and then we’ll talk.” He helps John sit up, hands him a bottle of water, and props pillows behind him. John drinks gratefully but grimaces at the movement of sitting up and with each gulp. When he’s drained the bottle, he pulls up his vest. The right side of his chest is purple and swollen, and he presses it gingerly with his fingers.

“I think I’ve got broken ribs. What the hell is going on?”

“What do you remember?”

John screws up his face, “I don’t know. I was walking home from the pub last night. I must have had more than I thought because I really can’t explain what happened to me. I must have been mugged. Except, the mugger was… was…he had red eyes… and teeth. Christ, I must have been off my tits.”

“You were attacked by a vampire, John.”

John turns his head, wincing at the pain, and looks at Sherlock incredulously. “Are you mad? You think I’m gonna believe that shit? What kind of game are you playing? I’m going to ask you again, where am I?”

“You are in my home. I found you in the alley, and you're lucky that I did. I don’t believe Moriarty would have killed you, but he would have made you wish you were dead.”

“Is Moriarty the mugger?”

“I told you, he’s a vampire.”

“I don’t believe in vampires.”

“Well, you better start because he’s going to come after you.  Here, drink more.” Sherlock hands John another bottle of water.

“Your name’s Sherlock, right?”

Sherlock nods. 

“Sherlock, if you rescued me last night. Fine. Thanks are in order. But why the bloody hell didn’t you call the police and why in god’s name are you in bed with me?” 

“I needed you to be safe John, and I got into bed with you because I enjoy your scent.”

“Oh god, this must be a crazy dream.” John shakes his head and looks away. Any minute now I’m gonna wake up in my own bed without every single part of my body hurting, and I’m gonna make tea and toast and maybe go for a walk…”

“No, John this is real. Moriarty is real. I am real.”

 _“You_ are real?” John laughs. “Don’t tell me you're a fucking vampire too.”

“Yes, John, I’m a fucking vampire too.”

“Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“No, I rarely joke. This is deadly serious John. I see I’m going to have to prove it.”

“This ought to be good.”

Sherlock leans close, and John’s smell is nearly overwhelming. He closes his eyes and just lets it drift over him. He draws back his lips, and his fangs drop.

He hears John draw in his breath and utter an oath as he shrinks back against the pillows.

“You see? I’m telling you the truth,” Sherlock says, opening his eyes.

“Christ!”

“I’m not going to hurt you John, but I need to tell you that I want to very much. Very much indeed. Do you know what you are John?”

“I’m a retired army doctor.”

Sherlock laughs at this. “You are so much more than an army doctor. You mean you don’t know?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. And could we please put the teeth away?”

Sherlock retracts his fangs. “You are part fairy, John. You’re a rare creature. Now that you are in London you will be hunted. Moriarty will want you for his own.”

Sherlock explains to John what he’s learned about the legend. 

“There might be a mark on you.  Your fairy blood is diluted, but it might still be enough for you to carry the mark.” Sherlock gets up and brings an old book to the bed and opens it to a drawing of a circle with a curved line bisecting it.

“The mark of a fairy. It could be anywhere. Do you want me to look?”

“I think I would have noticed it.”

“Perhaps not. Fairies live long lives. They don’t mature until age thirty-five. How old are you?”

“Thirty-six.”

“That explains how you've survived detection. The signs, the smell, wouldn’t have surfaced until recently. I’ve done some research.”

“I don’t know what to make of all of this. If you are a vampire, why haven't you killed me?”

“I told you-you are part fairy.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you smell and taste like sunshine John. I haven’t felt sunshine in one hundred and fifty years. Tasting you is to experience sunshine without the certain destruction that it means to my kind. Unless I drink too much. It’s why Moriarty wants you.”

“Yeah, I don’t feel like fucking sunshine right now.  Does this mean you want to bite me?”

“Yes, I want to bite you, John.”

“Will I die If you do?”

“If I can’t control myself then yes. But I’m not going to. Not unless you let me.”

“This is all so much. So overwhelming. I need medical attention, Sherlock. My ribs, my head.”

“No. I can’t take you to a hospital, but I can make you feel better.  I can ease your pain.”

“How?”

“Vampire blood is healing to mortals. But you aren't an ordinary mortal. Fairy blood is fatal to vampires. I don’t know what vampire blood would do to a fairy. My research didn’t tell me this. It’s a risk. I’m not sure it’s a risk we should take.”

“Take it. If what you say is true,  I don’t want to be defenceless against …whatever. And I think I have internal bleeding, I might die anyway. But I’ve got nothing to lose, and I’ve taken risks all my life.”

“Are you sure, John?”

“Yes. The military was my whole fucking world and now it’s gone. I was on my way to drinking myself to death or...maybe being more proactive about ending it.  I was…drifting. When I met you…I don’t know. I could tell you were different and it shook me up a bit, what I felt. Honestly, while it fucking hurts, this is the most bloody alive I’ve felt in months. I was hoping you would show up in the bar last night, and then I lost my nerve. So, if there’s a chance you can heal me I’ll take it. If I die, I was going to die anyway, sooner rather than later. If I don’t, then…well, I think my life just got interesting.”   

Sherlock smiles at this, and the closeness of John Watson threatens to overcome him once again.

 _Yesss_.

Sherlock rises from the bed and begins unbuttoning his shirt. _No sense getting blood on it. It was expensive_. He tosses it aside and stands by the bed looking down upon the mortal John Watson. The mortal that smells and tastes of the life that he has not experienced for over a century. His thin, pale frame is illuminated by the lamplight in the darkened room as John looks up at him.

“One more time. Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock brings his wrist to his lips and lets his fangs spring free. He bites down, and the blood begins to flow. Holding his wrist above John’s lips, he watches as the red drops fall to John’s open mouth.

He sees the momentary revulsion in John’s one good eye and then it shifts into something else. John pulls Sherlock’s wrist to his mouth and hums as the blood runs down his throat.

This is a new experience for Sherlock. The giving, rather than the taking of blood. He gasps and closes his eyes. It’s like falling. Like being weightless and not caring. His head falls back, and he feels the transfer of energy from him to John. _Is this what my victims feel like before they die?_ John is gripping his wrist tightly now, and blackness starts creeping in around the edges of his vision.

 _Stop. Too much_ …Before blackness consumes him, he wrenches his wrist from John’s mouth and pulls it against his chest. “Enough!”

John’s body convulses, and he looks at Sherlock and opens his mouth but doesn’t speak. Then his eye closes, and he lies still, his lips red with Sherlock’s blood.

  _Oh god, I’ve killed him! I should have been sure. Fuck!_

“Martha!”

In a flash, she’s beside him

“What’s happened?” She sees the blood on John's mouth and the way Sherlock is holding his bleeding wrist against his bare chest.

“Sherlock! You shouldn’t have! We don’t know what it will do to him!”

She bends over John. “He’s breathing thank goodness. That was a foolish chance you took Sherlock.”

He stands stricken, silent.

John’s lips are like a red gash across his ashen face. He doesn’t stir when they call his name and shake him gently.

Sherlock paces the floor, running his hand through his dark curls.

“Stupid! Stupid!”

“Sherlock, do you want him that much? You’ve just met him. He’s a mortal even if he does have fairy blood.”

“Martha, I tasted him. I tasted him, and it was like nothing I’ve experienced since I turned. To feel sunshine again!  After so many years of existing in black and grey and cold. I could actually feel the warmth! And the golden brightness. To think I could have the sun back!”

“It’s poison, Sherlock. The fairies were our enemies. We wiped them out two centuries ago. There was a reason we had to do that. We did it to survive.”

“But I’m fine! Look at me. I’m sure my theory is correct. Small doses. Controlled intake. I can do it, Martha. And it’s not just that. He’s special somehow, maybe its just the taste and the smell. But I don’t want him hurt. I want him to be mine. I know that’s selfish Martha. But I’ve always been selfish.”

“We need help then.” 

“Irene?”

“Yes, I think so.“

 

********

 

By evening John hadn’t regained consciousness. Sherlock remained at his side, changing the dressings on his head and neck wounds and sleeping beside him. There was still no sign of Moriarty. This was Sherlock's third night without feeding, and he was going to have to go out, but he didn’t want to leave John alone and defenceless if Moriarty did decide to make an appearance.

At midnight, the bell to the flat rings, announcing the arrival of Irene Adler, a vampire older than Martha and Sherlock combined and very powerful and influential in the London vampire scene. Turned at the height of her beauty, she is striking, and when she walks through the door in a form-fitting red dress, her long black hair flowing over her white shoulders, Sherlock can’t help but admire her. 

“You called darling?” she coos, gliding across the room to him and trailing a single red tipped finger from his neck down to the centre of his chest.

“Yes, we have a rather unusual mortal here who needs help.”

“Pity, I thought it might be because you were lonely,” she says looking up at him coyly through dark lashes, her finger still resting lightly on his sternum.

“Oh please,” he says with an eye-roll.

“Yes, I know, I’m not your ‘type’. You should really broaden your sexual horizons darling. Eternity is a very long time to play only one side of the field.” 

“You’ll be the first to know if I decide to do any broadening.”

She smiles. “So where is this special mortal?”

When they walk into the bedroom, Irene stops mid-stride and gasps, lifting her nose into the air and inhaling deeply.  “Oooh!" she exhales in excitement, “Where did you find him?”

“In Brixton.”

“Did you do this to him?" she asks, gesturing at John’s wounded face.

“No. Moriarty had him.”

“Oh, so he knows.”

“Yes.”

“He’ll be coming.”

“I know.”

She walks closer to John and bends down, her fangs descending as she gets close. Her lips brush against his cheek, across his jawline. Her fingers trace his neck, feeling the pulse.

“Don’t you dare, Irene. He’s mine. I called you here for help.”

“I know darling, but he smells so delicious.”

“I need to know if he’s going to be alright. I let him drink my blood. I was hoping it would heal him. He has internal injuries. Do you know anything that can help us?”

“If he really has fairy blood, I don’t know. I’ve never heard of the exchange going the other way.  They’ve always tempted us with their blood, to destroy us. You know that. They have been our enemy for centuries. He is our enemy. We should kill him, Sherlock. Well, maybe after indulging a bit. And he’s so… handsome.” She lifts the duvet and looks appreciatively at John’s form. 

“No. He’s not a threat. His blood is diluted. He didn’t even know.”

“You are smitten, aren’t you?”

“That is none of your concern, Irene, I was only hoping you could shed some light on his condition.”

“I can’t. But I like you, Sherlock. I always have. I’m willing to do what I can. I’ll watch him, protect him from Moriarty while you feed. You are pale, I know you're hungry. Go. I’ll sit with him.” She makes a shooing motion with her hands.

“Promise me…”

“I won’t touch him.”

 

********

 

When Sherlock returns near dawn, pink-cheeked and full, John is sitting up. Irene is on the side of the bed, shoes off, with her legs tucked beneath her. Both of John’s eyes are open and what had been the gash on his head is now just a faint pink line disappearing into his short blonde hair. Empty boxes of Chinese takeaway litter the bedside table.

Sherlock’s face breaks into a rare grin.“You're OK”?

“Relatively speaking,” John says.

“We’ve been having a lovely conversation,” Irene says.

“I’ve learned quite a lot tonight,” John says. “Honestly, I’m still expecting to wake up any minute and find this is all a dream. But thank you for saving my life, Sherlock. I think I’m going to be fine.” John lifts his vest, and there is only the faintest bruise on the right side of his chest.

Irene gets up and slips her feet back into her black pumps. “I need to be going. I’m going to assign some of my people to watch Moriarty until we decide what to do with him,” she says, tilting her head toward John. “I’ll be in touch.” She kisses Sherlock lightly on the cheek before leaving and whispers in his ear. “Enjoy your new pet Sherlock, and if you ever feel generous enough to share, you know where to find me.”

“I need to spend a penny,” John says after Irene leaves.

“That’s a good sign,” Sherlock says. “Your fluids have been restored. The bathroom is in the hallway.” 

When John returns, Sherlock is waiting for him, holding the cane.

“You forgot something.”

John stops in his tracks and then takes a few smooth steps across the room as if he can’t believe it. His face splits into a broad smile.

“I’ll be damned.”

“No, I’m damned, you’re healed.”

“You cured my leg?”

“Obviously.”

“What happens now, Sherlock. Can I go home?”

“No, maybe never. Moriarty will come after you. You’ll stay here for now. I don't have a plan yet, I need to sleep. So do you. You aren't entirely recovered.”

John looks a little apprehensive. “Am I safe with you Sherlock?”

“Yes, John, I promise. We’ll talk more tonight.”

John gets into the bed and watches as Sherlock removes his shoes and socks. Slowly he unbuttons his shirt and lays it across a chair before unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers and stepping out of them. Then he’s standing in nothing but black silk boxers and John is staring at him.

“You have questions?”

“About a million. How old are you?”

“One hundred and eighty, but I was thirty when I was turned.”

“You are…well preserved.”

Sherlock smiles at the obvious compliment. “I’m going to get into bed with you John. I won’t hurt you. We need to sleep, but I want to be close to protect you.”

John bites his lip and nods assent, and Sherlock slips under the duvet after turning off the lamp.

In the darkness, they lay side by side. Sherlock can hear John’s breathing and smell his exquisite scent. He’s not hungry, so it's bearable, being this close.  Bearable but still hard. Hard not to cover John with his body and bury his nose in his neck, smelling and then biting. He wants. He wants very much. _In time. Be patient._ _Let him heal._

After half an hour, John’s breathing has not yet settled into the even tempo of slumber and Sherlock can detect the slightest undercurrent of fear and also of desire, mixed with the other smells that are driving him mad, and Sherlock tentatively slides his hand across the sheets until it finds warmth. John doesn’t flinch.  One by one, he curls his long cool fingers over John’s, and a little thrill runs through him when he feels an answering squeeze. Curiously, the thrill doesn’t extend to his fangs. They remain retracted and quiescent in his mouth. _Interesting_. They fall asleep holding hands.

Sherlock wakes in the late afternoon and uses his mobile to check the weather. Partly sunny. Good. Moriarty won’t be out now.  John is still sleeping soundly, and Sherlock rolls to his side to look at him. The gash on his head and the bite marks on his neck are gone. Cautiously, Sherlock pulls down the duvet exposing John’s ribs which are now unbruised. His chest is muscular and covered with golden hairs, and the starburst scar is still there. Sherlock runs his hand over John’s body without touching, just feeling the heat rising from John's skin against his palm, but his mouth is close to John’s shoulder, and he can’t resist. He slowly presses his lips against the warm skin. His fangs are begging to be released, but he forces them back. John shifts but doesn’t wake at the touch.

Sherlock lets himself enjoy this contact for a moment, then slips out of bed. Pulling on his dressing gown, he exits the bedroom.  John is going to need food when he wakes, and he’s wondering how he’s going to procure it when he walks into the kitchen and finds that Martha Hudson is way ahead of him. On the hob is a pot of soup, and she has pushed aside the debris from his latest experiment and left a plate with bread, cheese and fruit, and a carafe of coffee on the kitchen table. A handwritten note tells him that there is milk in the fridge.  _Dear Martha, making that soup was probably the most fun she’s had in decades_.

 

********

 

He’s in his chair reading the paper when he hears the shower come on in the bathroom and ten minutes later John emerges, hair wet and wearing one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns which drags the floor.

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock says.

“Yeah, so this still isn’t a dream. I was kind of thinking when I woke up I’d be in my own bed in my own flat.”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t suppose you have coffee?”

“In the kitchen, there’s food too. If you take milk, it’s in the fridge.”

“Actually, let me get the milk,” Sherlock says, jumping up suddenly. There’s no sense in frightening John with the other items which currently reside in the refrigerator.

After settling into the chair across from Sherlock’s with his mug, John asks. “So why do you think I’m a fairy? Because I smell different?”

“You taste different too.”

“You…tasted me?” John practically shouts this question.

“Yes, you were bleeding, I wasn’t going to let it go to waste. I didn’t bite you, just took advantage.”

“Bloody hell, this is insane!”

“Let's find the mark John. The fairy mark. Do you remember? Will you believe me if we find it?”

“Maybe, but—"

“Good. Take off the dressing gown.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now. Take it off.”

Putting his mug down, John stands and lets the gown drop to the floor. He’s wearing a pair of Sherlock’s boxers, and Sherlock can see the faintest outline of his penis underneath the red silk. Holding his arms out, John rotates. “See anything? I think I would have noticed it.”

“Not necessarily, it could be small, or faint, or in a place you can’t see.” Sherlock stands and holds out his hand to John. “Come.”

Taking John’s hand, Sherlock leads him back to the bedroom and directs him to sit on the edge of the bed before kneeling in front of him.

“Let’s start at the bottom and work our way up.” He lifts one of John’s feet and proceeds to inspect it, looking between his toes, on the sole of his foot, then repeats for the other. Up his shins and calves, behind his knees. Running his eyes and fingers over every inch, searching for a mark or a ring of raised skin, slowly and methodically.

He pulls John to stand and continues, and John twitches as Sherlock’s hands glide over the tender skin of his inner thighs.

“Is that really necessary?” His voice is a bit breathless.

“Yes, it could be colourless, just raised flesh.”

When he’s covered every inch of skin south of the boxers, he pauses. He’s on his knees in front of John, his face even with John’s stomach. He can’t be completely sure, but he thinks the outline of John’s penis is just a bit more pronounced than it had been before. When he hooks his fingers into the waistband of the boxers, John tenses.

“Alright then, we can come back to that if we need to.” Sherlock continues the search on John’s stomach, even peering inside his navel, and John giggles when Sherlock’s fingers slide up his sides and tug at the hair under his raised arms.

“That tickles, and your fingers are cold! See anything yet?

“Not yet.” Sherlock feels drunk from the closeness of John’s skin and thinks about the hot blood running just below the surface.  His own penis is beginning to stir.  Moving behind John, he starts on his back, looking closely at the smooth skin, dotted here and there with moles, brushing his fingers in gentle circles over every inch, feeling the underlying muscles, touching John perhaps a bit more than needed under the pretence of being thorough, but finding no fairy mark.

John’s head has dropped back, and his eyes are closed, as the search, _the caress,_ continues and Sherlock smiles to himself. Reaching his neck, Sherlock’s fingers run up the back of John’s head, feeling his scalp, running his long fingers through the short locks, massaging, tugging and finally leaning in close to peer between the golden hairs at the skin beneath. _His neck, oh, god his neck is so close_.

Sliding a finger behind John left ear, he freezes when he feels something that isn’t smooth skin, and he looks closer. There it is. About the size of a shirt button and rose coloured, it is unmistakably the mark he was looking for. 

“Found it, John,” whispers Sherlock into his ear.

“Mmm.” John’s eyes are still closed, and his breathing is shallow. 

_Well then._

With his mouth still near John’s ear, he places his hands lightly on his shoulders and runs his fingers down the length of his arms and up again. John doesn’t protest but leans back slightly against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock repeats the movement down his arms but brings his hands back up over John’s belly and lets his palms graze his nipples, then rolls them gently between his fingers as John arches his back and inhales. Sherlock’s continues his caress as he begins to place gentle kisses on John’s shoulders and neck. His body is vibrating with desire and hunger, but he keeps his movements slow and unthreatening. 

“You like this John? Shall I continue?”

“Yes,” John breathes out in a whisper as he turns around. His eyes are open now and they meet Sherlock’s. They are deep blue like the ocean and beautiful.  They stare at one another, and the room around them seems to fade away. There is only the warmth, and the ocean, and the smell of summer sunshine and Sherlock bends and wraps John in an embrace as their lips come together. That first kiss is tender and tentative, mouths barely touching. Then Sherlock’s hand cradles John’s head and pulls him into a deeper kiss, with probing tongues and lips hungry for more. Warm against cold, John’s kiss is melting him, and he pulls him closer seeking the heat.

There is hardness against his thigh as John rolls his hips, and Sherlock answers it by pushing his own erection against John’s stomach. After so many years of taking what he wants, Sherlock finds that with this man, this extraordinary mortal, he wants to give, and he lowers himself slowly to his knees, trailing kisses down John’s body. With his hands cupping John’s arse, he places his open mouth against the base of the hard cock still encased in silk and begins working his way up, leaving wet marks on the thin fabric. John moans and his hands go to Sherlock’s head, fingers buried in the inky curls.

Sherlock slides the boxers slowly down, expecting protest, but none comes and he is just about to take John into his mouth when the grip on his hair tightens, and John gasps out “No, don’t…teeth!”

Sherlock looks up at John. “I think I can control it, but perhaps you’re right, at least for this first time.” He stands and guides John onto the bed, pausing to shed his dressing gown and pants before crawling on top of him and burying his face in John’s neck.

“Oh god, your smell John. I want you so much. I want to fuck you right into the mattress as I taste you. I know it’s too much to ask right now, but oh, how I want you.”

He feels John’s warm hand close around him, and he keens into John’s shoulder while thrusting into his fist. Blindly, his hand reaches to the bedside table and feeling around, locates the bottle of lube. Disengaging himself momentarily, he slicks his palm and shifts so that their cocks are side by side before reaching down and covering them both with lube. His hand joins John’s as they stroke each other. The bed rocks with their motion and the silence is punctuated with little cries and gasps and the occasional “yes” or “fuck yes”.

“Jooohhhn?”

“Yeah?”

“Please, John.”

“What is it?”

“Let me. Let me taste you when you come. I won’t hurt you. Please.”

John kisses him hard and breathes “yes” into his mouth, then tilts his head back, offering his neck. Sherlock sighs with relief as his fangs descend. He quickens his strokes and feels John’s body tense under him. 

“Now Sherlock,” John pants and Sherlock feels hot wetness pulse over his hand as he buries his fangs in John’s neck. The effect is instantaneous. Impossibly bright lights explode behind his eyelids, and his entire body is enveloped in warmth. He’s floating, the sky is blue, and his nose is filled with the sweetest smells. Bees buzz in his ears and birds chirp. He sees mummy’s face for an instant and then he’s running through grass with Redbeard. He can hear his own laughter, and he’s so warm, tilting his face to the sky and feeling the sun…

“Stop!” a voice far in the distance shouts. He wants to ignore it. Wants to drink in more of the glorious sun.

“Enough!” The voice is louder and closer, and he feels a shove against his chest.  Abruptly he comes out of the fugue and falls back onto the bed. His head is reeling, and as his vision slowly returns, he sees John, above him, eyes wild, hand against Sherlock’s chest, keeping him at arm’s length. A trickle of blood is running down his neck. 

“Are you alright?” John asks.

Sherlock can’t move and can’t speak for several seconds. He feels the last spasms of orgasm in his groin and wetness on his belly. His fangs retract.

“Yes, I think so,” he says finally.

“Irene told me not to let you have more than thirty seconds,” John says. "More could destroy you."

“John, that was the most singular experience. I felt alive. I felt the sun. You have given me a gift I cannot repay. You are indeed a treasure.”

John lies back on the pillow and lets Sherlock curl against him, with his arm and leg draped across his body possessively.

“What happens now, Sherlock?”

“I can’t give you up, you must already know that. And you will need my protection.”

“Can Moriarty be killed?”

“Yes, but it will be difficult and dangerous."

“ _Very_ dangerous?”

“Quite.”

Curiously, John smiles at this. 


End file.
